


What Trust Is

by Ladycat



Series: Why Spike Can Be Submissive [2]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Blow Jobs, Dom/sub, Exposition, Hand Jobs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-12 05:31:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1182488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spike didn’t shrug or otherwise move but Xander could feel his amusement.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Trust Is

**Author's Note:**

> Xander's POV

Xander’s fingers moved in patterns. He didn’t think about them anymore, deviations coming easily, but still pad and nail twisted through the same soft strands they’d visited a few moments before. It could’ve been a sign of staidness, but Xander knew that they both viewed it as soothing. “You think Willow did it on purpose?”

Spike didn’t shrug or otherwise move but Xander could feel his amusement.

“Good boy,” he murmured. His fingers trailed over finely grained skin to slip beneath Spike’s t-shirt to fondle nipple and the ticklish outline of abs. The shirt bulged obscenely around his hand. “You may speak.”

“Probably, Master,” Spike immediately agreed. “She knew that you worried about Buffy understanding and she dislikes the two of you uncomfortable with each other.”

The words were spoken softly. A primness the old Spike _never_ would have allowed himself colored the words, the accent moderated into respectability. Xander liked to hear William’s proper voice coming from Spike’s lips—but that wasn’t why Spike did it. Xander had never once asked or otherwise praised the softer speech or elegant construction. Speaking that way was totally up to Spike; a sign that he had truly relaxed, letting go of things Xander could only guess at, even after so long. Xander reveled in it.

“She wasn’t precisely comfortable with you, either.” Well-trained as Spike was, he shifted imperceptibly closer as Xander’s hand wandered even further south, giving Xander easier access. Xander curled more closely around his boy, knees coming up so they almost brushed Spike’s shoulder, his breath tickling Spike’s ear. He knew how much the warmth and scent of him comforted Spike. “Undo your pants.”

“Yes, Master.”

Xander waited for Spike to undo the buttons, shoving stiff denim away to reveal the prize. His touch remained casual, finger simply running over the cool velvet, occasionally tugging with the same absent air he’d had when toying with Spike’s hair. Beneath him, Spike hardened into desperate need, the tip already starting to grow wet with precome.

“She probably still won’t get it,” Xander mused as he played. “That’s okay. Sometimes _I_ don’t get it.”

Xander never understood _how_ he did it. If it was something in his scent or body temperature or some other unspoken signal—but whenever he wanted Spike to relax out of the rigid series of rules and requests that Xander imposed and Spike worshiped, Spike knew. And always, Spike knew just how far to go before Xander would snap back into the control he’d developed over so long and _force_ Spike back—although sometimes Spike did just that, for both of their pleasure.

Soft lips, petal pink and cool, brushed against his chin and cheek. Blue eyes as bright as the cold winter days Spike never saw gazed up at Xander with what could only be called adoration. There was amusement there, self-possession and intelligence underneath the reverence, and the rock-hard knowledge that this was chosen. Needed, wanted, desired, both the what _and_ the who unshakable. Whenever Xander had doubts—and he did; of course he did—all he needed was that look from Spike and all was well again.

“You understand, Master,” Spike murmured in a voice that said _you stupid sod_ even as it said _I love you_. “You don’t need to put it in words the way she does, but you still understand.”

Xander snorted lightly, reprimanding by scoring a nail down the underside of Spike’s cock before returning to the absent fondling. “Assuming, Spike? Sometimes I wonder...”

Spike’s hands rose, taking Xander’s free one and began massaging it. The gesture was as habitual and as desired as the patterns with which Xander tugged Spike’s cock, though for a different reason. Crushed into near uselessness in a rockslide, the massage was one of the things that ensured Xander’s continued mobility. That, and allowing Spike to touch him there was almost as intimate—as trusting—as when Spike was allowed to rub around the still-empty socket. Both ached constantly, a low-level pain Xander learned to ignore.

“Master,” Spike purred, bursts of air puffing against Xander’s neck, “not even Giles questions you. And of all of them, he trusts me least.”

Xander didn’t mention that there’d been a time, not all that long ago, when it had been _him_ Giles trusted least. But that was before Sunnydale fell, before Africa, before the mess in Amsterdam that had led him to Spike in the first place. He knew what Spike meant, understood the reassurance for what it was, but...

“Do you miss it, sometimes? Being a dom? Calling me ‘Harris’?”

There was no tremor to betray Spike’s distress, but Xander could feel it anyway. His hand closed tightly around Spike’s cock, warmth and pain mixing into the combination he knew Spike responded to best. Sometimes, privately, he railed against the obvious training Spike had undergone. Both who had done it and how none of those who attempted had ever come _close_ to giving Spike what he needed. And left scars and things Xander had to work hard to undo in their wake.

Lips pressed to Spike’s ear, Xander _growled_ , reminding both parts of Spike that nothing would make Xander relinquish his claim, and added the barest prick of nails to the tight pressure around Spike’s cock. Whether this was previous training or Spike’s own need, Xander had no idea. It’d been so long that it probably didn’t matter anymore.

Spike moaned, high and tight in the back of his throat, then relaxed into the pain.

“Good boy,” Xander said, nipping Spike’s earlobe. “Now then. I was asking you a question, wasn’t I?” His fingers found the indentations his nails had left and caressed them.

This time the silence was that of deep thought. Xander allowed it for a few minutes, cognizant that his friends could open the door to see him stroking Spike off in the middle of Giles’ sitting room. It wouldn’t be the first time, to be honest, but Xander wanted to spare Giles the sight. Willow and Buffy, if past history was any indication, would just watch.

“I wonder how it happened, sometimes,” he said when the silence stretched too long. “It could be _me_ sitting at your feet, Spike. I can imagine it easily. Especially... ” Especially before Africa. That was where he’d finally found that ground he needed to survive, the ability to let go and just relax into the changes Fate threw his way. That’s when he’d given up the bitterness.

“It could, Master.” Spike’s reply was so quiet Xander almost missed it. If not for the rumble of two bodies touching he would have. “I used to think of it, before. When you needed so much... ”

Willow was right, of course. They’d talked about it months ago now, probably years—sometimes Xander’s sense of time was distorted. She’d asked him if he wanted books about what he was doing, or contacts into the ‘scene’ that she could introduce him to. He’d said no. This wasn’t about a scene, where BDSM fanatics punished themselves or were punished by others, no matter how often their play bordered on that. There was nothing a book could teach him that Spike couldn’t teach better. Though he made the rules and enforced him, though he used Spike for his pleasure as often as he was used for Spike’s, though he fondled Spike even now the touch of owner with a beloved pet, though it was Spike who showed his need so obviously—it was _Xander’s_ need that Spike was responding to. Xander was being taken care of, so expertly that if he let himself, he could truly believe that it was the other way around.

So he wondered, sometimes. If Spike missed giving in to the demon’s need for control, the iron-will he’d exerted over himself—although so many would dissolve into hysterics when mentioning Spike and control; they didn’t understand—for so long. “Maybe we could switch some time?” he offered diffidently. “Maybe you could tell me what to do for a little.”

And oh, the option was actually appealing. The thought of doing what _Spike_ told him to for a while. Letting Spike seat him at Spike’s feet, turning his face between wide-flung knees to suck on the offering waiting for him there. To lay bound while Spike rode him, reaching his own pleasure without ever letting Xander find his. To—

“We could, Master,” Spike’s voice interrupted him softly. “If it would please you.”

Xander’s fingers wandered south, finding Spike’s balls to tug and roll them. “The question is would it please _you_ , Spike. You don’t have to belong to me this way to—to belong to me.”

For a moment, one brief moment, Xander swore he could feel sunlight against his skin, hear singing of the most beautiful melody he’d never heard, all wrapped up in the most perfect sense of _right_ that he’d ever felt.

Then he realized that Spike was smiling up at him. That Spike was _loving_ him.

He wasn’t aware when he’d transitioned from stunned amazement and joy to fucking deep into Spike’s throat. He didn’t think Spike did, either, because there was another blink and Xander was sated and dressed, and cuddling an equally dressed—although _not_ sated—Spike in his lap, murmuring words he couldn’t identify the language of, let along the meaning.

It was how the others found them.

Buffy immediately wrinkled her nose, though the way her eyes sparkled made him smile back. “You two were doing icky things, weren’t you?”

“What, I have post-sex face?” Xander teased, rubbing Spike’s collar and neck and threading his fingers underneath it distractedly. It was another gesture done so often it became habit.

“No, but you do have stunned-face,” Willow told him, head cocked to one side. “And Spike’s so blissed out that I don’t need to notice what his pants are _not_ loose enough to hide, thank you so much for that image, Mister.”

“Yolanda says you like looking at him,” Xander dead panned.

Willow brushed sunset red. And then redder still when Xander started grinning wickedly at her. “You two!” she cried, hands pressed to her flaming cheeks. “You’re bad. Very, very bad.”

“Actually,” Spike said, again knowing without any verbal cue that his speech was acceptable, “we’re both very, very _good_. At least, together.”

And then Xander didn’t have to say he loved Spike back as deeply as Spike loved him. Because Spike already knew.


End file.
